


but then your heart's never hollow

by lemon_verbena



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Marriage Proposal, POV Cormoran Strike
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:50:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27584339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemon_verbena/pseuds/lemon_verbena
Summary: “Where shall you go?” he asks. His voice is hoarse.“To my brother Stephen, most likely.” She looks away once more, to the park outside the library window. “His wife is lately increasing, and I can be of use in his household. I doubt I shall ever have one of my own, but he is a good man and his wife has been kind to me.”Strike’s chest is tight; what a waste, he thinks. A mind like hers, managing someone else’s household, raising someone else’s children, far from the salons and libraries of London.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 16
Kudos: 71





	but then your heart's never hollow

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for my rather sudden disappearance; there has been a lot of upheaval in my life recently and I've had to step away from my online pursuits. I've been reading old favorites, and this was sparked, and I thought I'd share it. It's very much a standalone piece, but I hope I've filled in the edges enough to see the shape of the larger plot it's set inside.
> 
> I hope you're all well, and I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Title from Bombadil's "I Could Make You So Happy."
> 
>   
> Oh, I tried to make you, make you love me  
> But then your heart's never hollow  
> 

“He is determined to ruin me,” Venetia says, steadfastly staring out the window. “He is determined, and he shall have his way, as like as not.”

Strike looks at her helplessly; even after these long years since losing his leg, he is still unaccustomed to problems that cannot be solved by applications of sword, pistol, or fist, and he has been forbidden from their use in this situation. 

She looks at him at last, and her blue-grey eyes are wet with the tears she refuses to cry. “I thank you for your many kindnesses, sir. I have enjoyed these afternoons with you. They have been—”

She breaks off, dabbing at her eye with her handkerchief. Strike, with his well-trained eye, cannot help but notice the embroidery is of a bird in flight; his Robin, indeed. She pulls herself together with a breath.

“They have been some of the happiest times of my life,” she says. “And I wished for you to know this before I went away.”

“Where shall you go?” he asks. His voice is hoarse.

“To my brother Stephen, most likely.” She looks away once more, to the park outside the library window. “His wife is lately increasing, and I can be of use in his household. I doubt I shall ever have one of my own, but he is a good man and his wife has been kind to me.”

Strike’s chest is tight; what a waste, he thinks. A mind like hers, managing someone else’s household, raising someone else’s children, far from the salons and libraries of London.

“I shall be taken care of,” Venetia says, as though reassuring him, or perhaps only herself. “Cunliffe has no sway, so far from London, and my brother has ever been a good man.”

“I do not doubt your brother’s character,” Strike adds swiftly. “I only mislike the idea of your many gifts lost to some small town in the North country, all because of a man of such low character as Cunliffe.”

Venetia looks at him once more, a tremulous smile on her lips. “You remain forbidden from engaging with him in any sort of duel. And you flatter me, sir, with talk of many gifts, but I am quite ordinary really. I’m sure there are many women like me if you should check some of the universities which admit others of my sex. I am sure you will find another to assist you in your researches.”

“But—” Strike is unable to keep himself from reaching a hand out towards her own, a gesture he nearly aborts halfway. He places one large, calloused palm over her slender ink-stained hand on the desk, causing her eyes to widen. “You see, none of them will be you, Miss Ellacott.” 

She is silent, but her hand beneath his spasms and turns over, her fingers curling upward along the edge of his palm. It is all the encouragement he needs; there is a plan rapidly forming in his mind, and it is simultaneously terrifying and the obvious solution to the issues she is facing. 

“You have been more than an assistant,” he says. “You have contributed beyond simply transcribing; your mind is bright and sharp, your understanding of the ancient tongues invaluable.”

“Your Latin is far better than mine,” she says softly. Her hand does not withdraw from beneath his. 

“But I haven’t got a lick of Greek,” he says. “What I am trying to say is that you will be utterly wasted running your brother’s household.”

She looks away at that. “What other choice do I have,” she says bitterly. “Once Cunliffe reveals that I am not only mannish in my interests but thoroughly ruined besides, I shall have no prospects. I have only a little dowry, as you know, and a passably pretty face, but that is hardly enough to tempt anyone but the most desperate of men into matrimony, and I should rather remain a maid for-ever than accept a cad or ne’er-do-well. I have had quite enough of that for one lifetime.”

It is only the feeling of her soft fingers against his hand that gives Strike the encouragement he needs to voice his mad idea. If she rejects him, all will be lost; but she is nearly lost to him already, and so there is little left to lose.

“That is true,” he agrees, trying to keep his voice even. Lord in heaven, he’s been calmer on battlefields than he is in this moment, sitting with a woman at a library desk! “You deserve a man who will cherish you for your many gifts and talents, who might allow you the freedom to research or even publish.”

She laughs, and it is a sad sound. “Do such men exist, sir?” Venetia asks. “For if they do, I have never yet had the pleasure of meeting one.”

“I must disagree,” he says. His heart is pounding in his chest, hard enough that he wonders if she can hear it. “For one such man is sitting before you now.”

Venetia blinks at him, silent for a long moment. “Sir,” she says slowly. “I do not understand.”

“I would allow you your freedoms,” he says, “would encourage you, even, for I value your input into my work. I would take care of you, Miss Ellacott.”

“What are you saying?” she whispers, eyes fixed on his face.

“I am—” He clears his throat. “I would be honored if you would consent to be my wife, Miss Ellacott.”

She snatches her hand from his as if burnt. “Do not say such things,” she hisses. “It is most unkind.”

“Unkind? No—” 

“I do not wish to wed a man who would propose out of pity,” she says. “I may be but a woman, sir, but I do have my pride, and my dignity, such as it is.”

“I have offended you,” Strike says. “I am sorry for that, for it is the furthest thing from my mind to ever do so. But I do not say such things in jest, Miss Ellacott. Please believe me when I say that I am in earnest in this matter, and I do not ask you out of pity.”

Venetia stares at him, nostrils flaring with her heaving breaths; she is upset, but she has not yet fled from him. Strike is suddenly grateful that their usual companions in this reading room have gone for their luncheon, for to have an audience for this conversation would be humiliation itself. 

“If not pity, then what?” she asks. “You are the most confirmed bachelor I have ever met, and the whole of society knows of your ongoing affair with the Lady Croy, so I fail to see what the poor daughter of a gentleman could offer you!”

Strike searches her face, and sees only anger and doubt. Hardly the reaction a man hopes for when he proposes matrimony. 

“It is not pity,” he says again. “I swear to you, Miss Ellacott, it is not that.”

She is silent, but nods. 

“I cannot imagine my days without you in them,” he says, slowly feeling his way through the words. “You have become a part of my life that I cannot bear to lose. I cannot see you gone to raise your brother’s children when your place is here, by my side.”

Venetia’s mouth parts, a soft pink ‘o’ of surprise. 

He forges on. “I do not care that you have a small dowry, or few connexions, or whatever else Cunliffe has poisoned your mind into believing. You are clever and kind and you have become very— dear to me.”

She startles at this admission, as does he. Strike had not planned to say such things aloud, this day or any other. It is not seemly, to declare one’s affections for women who do not care to hear them. But he has come this far, and there can be no going back now. Cormoran Strike is no coward. 

“I cannot sit idly by as Cunliffe drums you out of society, when I have it within my power to solve these problems,” he says. “I do not wish to lose you, Miss Ellacott, do you see? I would protect you, and care for you. I would give you your freedom, if you would be my wife.”

Venetia takes a breath, then another. She is pale, with two bright spots of color high in her cheeks. “And of the Lady Croy?”

Strike hurries to reassure her. “She is nothing to me now, less than nothing, do you understand? I have severed all my ties to Lady Charlotte. There is nothing between us any longer, nor has there been for over a year now. She would not come between us.”

“Between us?” His Robin looks as though she might take flight at any moment, poised to flee. Strike wishes he had a better way about him, that she might see his heart and find it true. But he has a moment of clarity of what she is asking; and then he is ashamed of himself for not seeing it sooner.

“I understand if you do not wish to marry me because of a— a lack of feeling,” Strike says. The words tear forth from his tongue, but he means them even as they pain him. “I would have no expectations of you, if you take my meaning. You might keep your own chambers, your own servants. I do not wish to compel from you what is not freely given.”

He is aware of the circumstances that Cunliffe holds over her; the idea of having her by force makes him feel ill. He wants little more than to be welcomed into her bed; but welcome he must be, to remain there.

He reaches out to take her hands in his own; she allows him this, and he holds her gently. Like a bird, he thinks, his Robin. 

“If you do not wish to marry me, we shall never speak of this again,” he says, low and quiet, nearly a whisper. “I shan’t hold it against you. But I could not bear to watch you quit London for-ever, knowing that I might have been able to protect you, to offer you the safety of my household. I should like to take care of you, Miss Ellacott.”

Her eyes have been fixed on their hands between them; at this she looks up, meeting his gaze. He wonders if he looks as pathetic as he feels, with the contents of his heart laid out in orderly fashion for her perusal.

“You would allow me to continue my researches?” she asks, matching his quiet tone.

“Of course,” he says, pulse quickening once more at this evidence of her consideration. “I would be honored if you should continue to work alongside me, but you would also be free to pursue your own works.”

Venetia takes a breath, exhaling it slowly. 

“And you do not—” She looks out the window, then back at their hands. “It does not bother you that I am spoilt? It is quite readily apparent, you see, on my body. There is no forgetting it.”

He shakes his head. He had not known this; if the man had not already been long buried, Strike would happily have wrung his neck. “As I said. I would not force you to— to the marital acts. But it is hardly your fault, what happened to you, and I could never hold that as a mark against you, only against the one who committed the crime.”

She nods, then tilts her head. “You do not wish to share my bed? It would be a marriage in name only?” She glances at him, her gaze sharp enough to flay, then away again.

His gut twists within him. “If that is what you wish,” Strike says. “I shall never compel you against your wishes, in this matter at least.”

Venetia contemplates this answer. Strike’s heart thunders in his chest. 

“And what of children?” she asks. 

“What of them?” he replies, confused. Venetia has spoken only rarely of the future, of running a household and having a husband. She has never before spoken to him of children. 

“Do you want any?” she asks him quietly. “I had assumed you did not, for a man of your stature who wishes to have children would have an easy time of it to find a pretty, pliable wife to bear him some.”

“I had never thought to marry,” Strike says honestly. “And being a bastard son, I could not wish the status on a new child. So it has never occurred to me to think on the matter overmuch.”

As he says this, however, he can picture them: a daughter with Venetia’s reddish-gold hair twisted in his own wild curls, with her clever wit; a son with his own broad shoulders, and Venetia’s blue-grey eyes. It staggers him, in a gentle sort of way. She would make a good mother, his Robin. He had not had a good mother, and Charlotte has already proven to be an indifferent one. But Venetia… she would raise children to be loved, and protected, and good. The imagining of it chokes his throat.

“Would you like children, Miss Ellacott?”

“I had always thought to have some,” she says. “Two, perhaps. My mother had four, which is certainly too many for me.”

“Two children seems a good number,” Strike says, voice thick. 

She looks up to meet his gaze. “Would you give me children, if I asked you for them?”

There is a tightening in his gut, in his loins, when she says this. They are both aware of how children are created; she is asking many questions in this one. Their gazes hold, thrumming with an unspoken power; he does not close his eyes but knows that if he did there would be a vision of his prim-and-proper Robin with her hair down, a golden spill across his pillows. 

“I would give you whatever is within my power to provide,” he manages to say. “Including children, if you wished for them.”

She bites her lower lip, a flash of pale against pink, and Strike wonders if he has spoken wrongly.

“Yes,” she whispers, looking up at him once more. 

“Yes?” he repeats, as though unsure. He cannot be unsure, not in this. 

“Yes,” she says again. “I will marry you, yes.”

Strike’s eyes search her face, but where there was only fear before there is now something like hope, something soft unfurling there like a flower in the early morning light. 

“Miss Ellacott,” he says, and his voice doesn’t tremble a bit, “I would like to kiss you now.”

She is still nodding when his lips press to hers, and Strike wonders if he is imagining the memory of salt upon them as he kisses her again— and again— 

Her hands are on his face, her fingertips stroking the curls at his temples, as he kisses her mouth, her cheek, her mouth again. 

“I will be a good husband,” he promises between kisses. “I swear to you, Miss Ellacott, I will.”

“Oh,” she’s sighing— 

“I say!”

Wardle, returning from his luncheon, startles them apart, sitting back in their chairs. They look at him with identical expressions of surprise, and he looks between them with shock. 

“Wardle,” Strike says, rising from his seat and drawing Venetia up with him. “You must be the first to congratulate us. Miss Ellacott has just consented to become my wife.”

Wardle, no fool, has never suspected their partnership to be anything other than academic; however, both the blush on Miss Ellacott’s cheeks and the ardor with which Strike had just been speaking give lie to that. 

“Many happy felicitations,” Wardle says. “I wish you both every happiness.” He shakes Strike’s hand, bemused by the expression on Strike’s face; the man looks quite besotted. 

“Thank you, sir,” Miss Ellacott says. He nods to her.

“We must be off,” Strike says, looking down at his newly-made fiancee with something bright in his eyes. “I must write to Hardacre about a marriage license.”

“So soon?” Miss Ellacott asks. 

“I cannot bear to waste a moment,” he says, and Wardle feels as though he is intruding now, despite this reading room being a public space which he has shared with them easily for many months now.

“Write to me with your new address, once you have it,” he says to Strike. “So my wife will know where to send the invitations.”

“Invitations?” Miss Ellacott sounds confused.

“Yes,” Wardle says. “Your Sir Strike has been round to supper many times, and my wife will wish to make the acquaintance of the woman who has captured him. She’s been attempting to pair him off for half a year or more, I should think.”

“I will write you,” Strike says, towing Miss Ellacott along like a child with a new kite, all energy and focus. “Farewell, Wardle.”

“Mrs. Wardle has been trying to make you a match?” Venetia asks, following Strike out of the reading room and through the greater halls of the library. “You never said.”

“I was not interested in Mrs. Wardle’s friends,” Strike says, glancing at her. “I had already given that part of myself away, you see, though I was unaware of it at the time.”

There is something in Strike’s chest that feels suddenly free, as though he has been chained down without knowing he was shackled at all. 

“I have always been resistant to matrimony,” he says as they walk out into the sunlight. “It has never been my aim to settle down into staid domesticity.”

“Then what changed?” Miss Ellacott’s hand squeezes his. 

“I did,” he says, stopping suddenly. They are standing on a path in the garden which the window of their reading room overlooks. Strike pulls her aside, beneath the shade of a proud oak tree. “I changed, Miss Ellacott. Or perhaps you changed me. I hardly know the difference.”

“If we are to be married,” she says, feeling suddenly very brave, emboldened by this declaration. “Then perhaps you might call me by my Christian name.”

“Venetia?” Strike says, tasting it on his tongue. “It is a beautiful name, but it is not how I think of you.”

“Then shall you call me Miss Ellacott for all our days?” she asks. “That might become rather confusing, don't you think?”

“No, that is not it at all,” he replies. “Do you remember, when we first began our research, how there was a pair of birds who nested in the tree outside the window?”

“Yes,” Venetia says, nodding. 

“You have ever reminded me of one of those birds,” he says, quietly, the sharing of a secret. “So bright and inquisitive, fluttering strongly against the gale.”

She looks at him, something warm in her expression that gives him the courage to say aloud what he has only ever thought to himself. 

“You are my Robin,” he says, placing a hand upon her cheek. “It is how I have thought of you for many months now.”

She leans her face into his touch, eyes slipping closed as a smile curls her mouth. 

“Your Robin,” she sighs. “Yes, that will suit me just fine.”

Strike, unable to help himself, tilts her face up to be kissed, just once, chastely. He can feel her smile against his own mouth.

“But you may call me by my Christian name,” he allows, “though I cannot think of anyone who has called me such in many years.”

“You do have a dizzying array of nick-names,” Venetia agrees, her eyes opening to meet his once more. “But I think Cormoran is a handsome name.”

“Do you?” 

She takes his hands in hers once more. “I do indeed, Cormoran.”

He closes his eyes and inhales, letting the moment soak into his bones. The sunlight on his shoulders, the shouts of children in the street, the birdsong above them. His Robin’s hands in his, the imprint of her mouth still upon his lips. The way his name sounds in her voice, said with such affection.

“Come along, my dear,” he says, setting their feet back on the path. “I daresay we have rather a lot of letters to write.”

“We do,” she says. “We ought to start with my father, don’t you think?”

“Yes, of course,” Strike agrees. “And after that, I shall write to Cunliffe, to give him our happy news. I think he ought to know right away, don’t you?”

She looks up at him, and he can see it in her face once more, that petal-soft look of hope, underlaid with a steely set to her jaw that bodes poorly for the man who has caused it.

“I would rather write to him myself, sir, if you don’t mind,” she says. 

“What a bloodthirsty look is on your face,” he says with a chuckle. “Of course you might have the honor, my dear. My Robin.”

He lifts their joined hands to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her fingers. 

“This is all moving rather quickly, isn’t it?” Venetia remarks as he escorts her to his townhouse, bachelor digs chosen chiefly for their proximity to the library. “Why, only yesterday I wrote to my mother, and I don’t believe I mentioned you once. She’ll be terribly shocked to discover our engagement.”

“It is quick, yes,” Strike agrees. “But hardly sudden, which I think is a distinction of some merit, do you not agree?”

Her smile is bright. “Sir, this morning I thought myself ruined for-ever, and this afternoon I find that I am engaged to a man of good character who I thought valued me most for my fine penmanship. If there are to be any more changes, sudden or quick, I don’t know how I shall bear them.”

He pulls her off the main path into the alcove of a doorway, taking her hands once more in his. “You shall bear them with dignity and grace, as you ever do,” Strike says, “but more than that, you shall not bear them alone.”

“No,” Venetia says with some wonder. “No, I shan’t.”

Strike lifts her hands, kissing first one, then the other. “You shall never be alone again,” he vows. 

“And neither shall you,” she replies, and watches his eyes soften, something tender and unspoken in his gaze. 

He presses a kiss to her cheek, and they set off once more into the afternoon sunlight, her hand tucked safely in his arm.


End file.
